


Honey | Salt Caramel

by bluesyturtle



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Dating, Deductions, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Time, Ice Cream, M/M, Muscles, POV Sherlock Holmes, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-24
Updated: 2015-02-24
Packaged: 2018-03-14 21:51:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,750
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3426818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluesyturtle/pseuds/bluesyturtle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Marcus is fantastic at sex and no one will convince me otherwise.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Honey | Salt Caramel

Sherlock slides his hand across Marcus’ collarbone and slowly down the outside curve of his arm. He’s got shapely arms, Marcus has. Looking at how his triceps catch light, mingle shadows, and curve down into the biceps and dip down toward the brachioradialis reroutes the brunt of his attention from the fingers tugging at his belt. 

He hears Marcus ask into the side of his neck, “Still wanna do this?”

“I assure you,” Sherlock answers, aiming for stern but hitting more on the mark of breathless. “I would be unrelentingly vocal if it were no longer my wish to do this with you.”

“Don’t know,” Marcus murmurs, drawing back so he’s propped up on his elbows. “We didn’t talk much about what doing this makes you feel.”

“I had thought that to be evident.”

He raises his hips up in a slow grind to meet with Marcus where his supine form meets with the former’s prostrate one. In an immensely flattering, clearly unguarded moment of helpless capitulation, Marcus’ eyes flutter closed and his dominant hand shoots down to capture Sherlock’s thigh where it branches off to his hip. A soft, unmistakably annoyed sound issues from his closed lips and he drops his forehead into Sherlock’s bare shoulder.

“Listen for a second.”

Sherlock eases the one leg he has wrapped around his current bedmate down and pushes both feet toward the foot of the bed to lie perfectly flat. He folds his hands patiently over his sternum and waits, the picture of obeisance if he does say so himself.

“Yes, Marcus?”

Marcus stares at him and looks at a loss for words. Sherlock sighs through his nose.

“I have done this before. My previous partner in the act was not someone whom I held in the highest esteem. I respected him, of course, and vice versa, but I did not know him.”

Something immeasurably soft opens up in Marcus’ expression, and for a few long seconds Sherlock can only study that look, wondering if the degree of his tenderness could in fact be measured in temerity.

“I know you—enough, in any case, that I trust you with my body, as you have demonstrated in far greater capacities that I may. If you’re concerned about the extent of my willingness to let this experience call upon intimacy rather than pure sexual inclination, then your worry is misplaced, I can assure you.”

The serene look on Marcus’ face slowly shifts into something harder, strangely resolved toward something Sherlock fails to track. In one neat, almost imperceptible twitch of facial muscles, Marcus looks light and refreshingly playful.

“If that’s your way of saying you like me, right back at you. We don’t have to do anything more than this if intimacy’s all you want right now. The other thing can come later.”

“I do,” Sherlock says after a beat, clumsily adding, “like you, that is.”

Marcus swallows, looking, afterward, as though he wishes he had stifled the reaction before it could be noted, dissected, and compartmentalized for now, later, and likely, for always.

“And the second part?”

Sherlock drops his gaze from Marcus’ eyes to his lips and then lower to the slanted column of his neck, parsing out the valley-to-hill ratio in his skin.

“Marcus.”

He hums, an answer and a question simultaneously. Sherlock raises his gaze to Marcus’ eyes, dark and glistening and bizarrely wonderful because it’s Marcus looking through them at him—unmistakably Marcus looking so attentive yet brilliantly distracted by need and trying so very hard not to be.

His lips are there just a few inches away, plump and soft and reminding his nose of the gelato they had an hour ago before coming back to the brownstone: that awkward instant of hesitation at the door, gesturing vaguely and then more firmly with an overt declaration of Watson’s being downstairs, which she wasn’t at first, though she relented to duck out the door and head that way when she began to comprehend their predicament.

Marcus had wanted to go to his apartment, but they had ended up in the kitchen with Watson for tea. Shortly thereafter they were alone with a seventy-thirty chance of being good and properly alone now. Watson was always so good with allowing him space to engage in his trysts, and he can’t imagine she would behave differently with the knowledge that Marcus is with him and not some random, all but nameless stranger. She hadn’t pressed and Marcus had adamantly not volunteered, and Sherlock had stood there rocking back on his heels, content to be in the company of two people he—

Trusted, certainly. Perhaps there are some limits there to be drawn in the sand, but he is comfortable calling it trust and leaving it at that.

“At this juncture, I am typically the one to be told, but I feel the situation merits the deed.”

He swoops up to plant a firm kiss on Marcus’ lips and holds there for as long as he intends to, staying a bit longer when Marcus’ mouth slips open and his tongue peeks out and the tense arch of Sherlock’s shoulders collapse and melt into the bed. Marcus edges away, pressing loose-lipped, relaxed kisses down Sherlock’s jaw and across his neck until he’s mouthing at his Adam’s apple. Sherlock makes a noise, just a blip of sound that comes out embarrassingly high-pitched, and then another one slips at the first suggestion of teeth at his pulse.

“You were saying?”

“Ah, you think too much.”

Sherlock shivers at the low, breathy laugh his answer earns him. Marcus raises his head to look him in the eye, a wide, pleased smile curving his well- but frankly under-kissed mouth.

“The first time you say that to me and you don’t even mean it as a compliment.” He shakes his head ruefully, smile never leaving, never changing for a second. “What’s a guy to do?”

“Just a suggestion, but.”

Sherlock glances pointedly down the expanse of Marcus’ chest that begins with deltoids, clavicles, and pectorals, and ends with the closed circle of his belt. They’d managed their shirts before falling into their current position. After their belts, trousers, pants, and one of Sherlock’s shoes (stubborn laces, knotted in the wrong place to name one thing and also a bit long for his liking—not at all flexible to being taken off without first being loosened), they’ll be naked like he wants them to be.

“You could resume disrobing,” he says, watching his left hand climb the uneven planes of Marcus’ torso. His eyes jump up to Marcus’ face at his tiny gasp when a blunt nail grazes the edge of his nipple. Softly, lidding his eyes almost effortlessly and dragging the pad of his thumb over the sensitive ridges of that nipple that he conspires to have in his mouth at some point, he whispers, “I would very much like to see the rest of you.”

Marcus swears, says, “Damn, oh, sh—” and tumbles down from his elbows to mingle their lips again. He doesn’t quite taste like the honey gelato (and he doesn’t suspect he himself tastes of the salt caramel), but the hint of it on his breath and the easy glide of his tongue flicking at the roof of Sherlock’s mouth don’t need to _taste_ so as to be divine and succulent.

Sherlock raises his hands to Marcus’ belt when he alerts to fingers nudging at his belt with renewed purpose. He makes quicker work of it and slides Marcus’ trousers down as far as he can. They go easily and crumple down his thighs, pooling down the rest of the way with a few light kicks and an opportune handful of glorious backside that ultimately may do more to hinder their process than help, but Sherlock is an imp at the best and worst of times. The bedroom is no exception to that rule.

The look Marcus gives him only encourages him to capitalize on such moments whenever he can: the single raised eyebrow, the expressive lift to one corner of his mouth, the spark in his eyes that he’s had in moderation since they came to Sherlock’s room and closed the door behind them.

Well, no, that’s not precisely accurate. Sherlock first saw it when they left the Italian place, before they’d decided on gelato and well before they’d thought to come back here, meaningfully undress each other, and carry on like lovers.

He supposes they will be lovers, if they aren’t now.

Sherlock lifts his hips for Marcus to slide his trousers off at the same time that his own pair slinks off the bed into a heap on the floor. He works them down Sherlock’s legs, pulling one foot free and then pausing to untie the laces of his remaining shoe. The slope of his shoulders and the soft concentration on his face keep Sherlock fixated there, examining the faint wrinkle in between his eyebrows as it contrasts with his smooth forehead. Marcus bites his lip, tugs one lace free with one hand while the other cups the clothed ankle, and flicks his gaze up to meet Sherlock’s.

“Something kind of intense about this,” he remarks softly, perhaps operating under the assumption that, should Sherlock shares the sentiment, he will take comfort in expressing it with words.

Thinly, he replies, “Cloying is the word I think of.”

Marcus raises an eyebrow at him again, less like the way he does it when something pleases him. He tugs Sherlock’s shoe off gruffly and yanks his trousers all the way off his remaining leg, going so far as to toss them over his shoulder where they join his on the floor.

“Better?”

“Much,” Sherlock muses, going up to his elbows to look at Marcus, to gauge his receptivity, to anticipate what will come next while Marcus plucks Sherlock’s socks off his feet as an afterthought. “Do you have a preference?”

“You’re not outta the woods yet, Grabby-Hands.”

His tongue idles in his mouth in spite of the witty comment with which he’s prepared to retort, mouth going dry at the touch he’s receiving and the implied focus directing their contact. Palms and long fingers rub firmly up and drag down, skimming flesh with flesh and then through cotton in a repetitive, hypnotic cycle. He grazes his lips along the insides of Sherlock’s knees and mouths at his thighs, higher through straining fabric, and sucks at him through the last shred of clothing on his body.

Sherlock swallows and sinks his back into a slouch, only just balancing his weight between his elbows and upsetting his center of gravity by dropping his head back. Marcus teases his fingers beneath the waistband of his pants and waits without speaking for Sherlock to lift his hips again, which he does, closing his eyes around patient somersaults of worn, soft cotton down and down and down his legs. 

“Do you have anything?” Marcus asks into the exposed dip between hip and pubic bone.

“Lubricant? Condoms? A wide array of toys, blindfolds, and lingerie, some of which is edible? Marcus, I have many things. You’ll have to be more specific.”

“I meant the first two, but I’m definitely curious about the other things.”

For the next few seconds all that registers in Sherlock’s heavily-stimulated brain is the fingers closing around his cock, initially tentative but immediately bold and stroking him, squeezing him.

Sherlock hums, flattening his arms to his sides and falling to his back without contest.

“In that drawer.” He points and makes no attempt to move. Marcus fails to notice as he’s moving as soon as direction is given. “Do feel free to select whatever inspires your fancy.”

Straight away, Marcus inquires, “What do you like?”

“There is not an object in that drawer that I shan’t enjoy to undertake with you. Ah—excepting the pennies at the bottom of the drawer, although that should go without saying.”

“Saving ‘em for a rainy day?”

Sherlock sees Marcus’ smile when he turns his head to look at him. He also sees his cock, full and flushed with an ache to match Sherlock’s—ideally, anyway. It isn’t as if that expression of passion could fully, wholeheartedly exist identically within both of them concurrently, people being the complex albeit predictable machines that they are.

Marcus sets a wrapped condom and a small, discreet bottle with a pump on the bed well out of their way but satisfyingly within reach. 

“Feel all right with ‘the rest of me’?”

“A bit more than all right.” Sherlock reaches overhead for the neat arrangement of pillows and fumbles for the top blanket to get at the sheets beneath. “Before we begin with all that, perhaps we might reconsider our position.”

They push the blanket down to the foot of the bed where it still covers their ankles once they’re aligned in the desired manner. All the variables of the encounter favorably sorted to his taste, Sherlock wraps his legs back around Marcus’ waist and _pulls_ , creating altogether new sensations from those he experienced when there were more clothes dividing them. Marcus ruts blindly into his hip on instinct alone but remembers himself a moment later and consciously slows down. Sherlock chokes on an intake of air, nerve endings sparking and stomach dipping unceremoniously at the thought of that pressure, that reckless abandon, driving _into_ him.

He feels for the bottle and shoves it into Marcus’ hands, stepping his own feet back and raising his hips to accommodate for Marcus venturing fingers once they get there. Marcus takes his time getting there.

At first, Sherlock considers complaining, vehement with impatience for what they can take slowly later after thoroughly rushing through it now, but then he considers that, too, around the rush of blood in his ears that answers directly to the tongue lapping demurely up the length of him, the hot mouth sucking at the top, the fingers rolling, massaging, doing every thinkable, pleasurable thing…

He doesn’t complain.

Going faster would mean giving up the slow, awful torture of Marcus’ mouth and fingers, teasing him to hardness and keeping him there. Stopping would mean pushing away his dominant hand as it ventures lower still to sear and suggest and persuade and _ask to be let in_ so politely that Sherlock can do little else but invite him in.

And Marcus has done this before, too, though he hadn’t said so outright. His fingers are practiced and they adjust to the odds and ends of the body they lavish with stretching, twisting, and too-slick gliding that Sherlock can hear with how wet it is—how wet they are where their bodies open and press together.

His lips are swollen and shiny when Sherlock commands him in a shredded voice that only vaguely sounds his to ease off.

“You’re too good at that,” he tries to explain, succeeding more, he realizes, in sounding intoxicated and wrecked with strangled desire. Marcus stares up at him, looking equally lost, if one could call the dazed, wild look about his expression. “Please come up here.”

Marcus crawls up the length of his body, kissing and nipping at feverish skin in spite of how his jaw must ache. With those tireless lips enclosing one of his nipples, Sherlock decides and rolls them over so that Marcus is laid flat beneath the straddled thighs and jittery hands of one Sherlock Holmes. His face has changed from one of sleepy determination to rapt anticipation: his glistening eyes go wide and his supple mouth goes slack as if with wonder, hands lifting automatically to Sherlock’s hips.

Hands still free, Sherlock tends to the matter of the condom. He takes his cues about it from Marcus’ treatment of him and lingers, brushes the heel of his hand down the full length of the cock straining toward Marcus’ belly. The noises his patience wins him are sin and nothing else.

Sherlock bends in close to kiss the taut skin of Marcus’ belly, hands dipping down to fit him into the condom at long last. He walks his hands back up the muscled abdomen beneath him, plants one hand on the pillow beside Marcus’ head, and reaches back with one hand to guide them together in a burning, steady plunge that stings but slides easily for all their preparation.

He hears Marcus grunt through his teeth, jaw set tight and eyes almost closed, fingers squeezing Sherlock’s hips to keep him in place as he seats himself fully. Sherlock watches him expel a full breath of air, suck another one in, and let it go slowly through his nose.

When his eyes finally open and he looks as in control of himself as Sherlock plans to let him be, Sherlock tells him—meaning it with his whole being, “Do your worst.”

He waits for Marcus to reply.

Licking his lips, he mumbles, “You say that like you don’t believe in my best.”

Confused at himself, as much as he can be when so much of his blood has fled from his brain, he utters the single, highly expressive word, “Oh.”

Well, that. That wouldn’t be correct, would it?

“I fu- _fully_ believe—”

Apparently that also goes without saying, or it will have to until they’ve finished because Marcus bounces Sherlock in his lap and swivels his hips and pulls him down. After the initial shock of pleasure plateaus into something buzzing but manageable beneath his skin, Sherlock answers Marcus’ pace with enthusiasm. They won’t last long, but they’ll have numerous occasions after this one to perfect it, to negotiate intensity and pressure and speed.

He isn’t actually sure how he knows that there will be more times like this, but he feels that there will be. Marcus hadn’t corrected him in his assumption that there would be. The delightful, pitchy sounds falling from Marcus’ lips like leaves from trees don’t make him feel like his skills won’t be called on again—skills, camaraderie, intellectual stimulation, whichever.

Sherlock hasn’t put his finger on what Marcus likes best about him, if he even _has_ something that he likes best about him or sexual partners in general. The one constant Sherlock can readily identify is tactility. Marcus likes to kiss and be kissed. He likes to be explored, and folly on Sherlock for not taking as much care in that department as he should have. He makes up for it by leaning in low so that their chests bump, stick with sweat, and pull for accidental friction and intention alike. Their opened mouths slot together, messily separated and mingled around greedy breaths, swallowed moans, and hungry gasps for more, more.

The angle shifts that single hairsbreadth his body needs and utterly shatters his composure. He drops his forehead to one sweat-slick clavicle and whimpers through savagely closed lips. Marcus lifts his hand to Sherlock’s cock and changes his tempo to match the uneven bucking of Sherlock’s hips into his fist, and then Sherlock really is lost, shuddering, jerking, and groaning into Marcus’ skin as if with pain or delirium.

He has enough of his mind about himself in the aftermath of his orgasm to push himself upright on shaky arms and weakened legs. Marcus watches him with his chest rising and falling in rapid succession. Sherlock rolls his hips and Marcus drops his head back hard onto the pillow.

After seeming to argue with himself over what is to be done, Marcus pushes Sherlock up and over onto his back as he was originally. He lifts one leg high up over Marcus’ shoulder, closing his eyes and parting his lips for the tongue that plunders his mouth. Sherlock kneads his hands at Marcus’ back and shoulders while his body moves sinuously, apologetically against Sherlock’s. He can tell he’s trying to hurry himself along so as not to be inconvenient, but that just will not do.

Marcus lets himself be pushed off, poised to say something that Sherlock refuses to hear. He quiets down as Sherlock’s taking the condom off him and flinging it vaguely toward a wastebasket near the door. They’d gotten tested separately at Marcus’ quite mature suggestion following their second successful date, so Sherlock has no qualms about returning the favor Marcus had so generously bestowed upon him.

It doesn’t take long as close as Marcus is from everything leading up to his intensely deserved orgasm that Sherlock is amusingly proud of. Sherlock ambles out of bed and puts on a robe, much to the obvious disapproval of one still-recovering Marcus Bell who frowns impressively at him with one eye opened a crack.

“Seriously?”

“You’re covered in copious amounts of fluid not all originating from your body. If you want to stew in that, please be my guest.”

“Ugh,” Marcus says and something else muffled by his hand.

“Of course, you’re welcome to join me.”

Marcus looks at him, sighs, and struggles into an upright position on the bed. Sherlock stares at him, deeply entertained at the sight of him so undone and slow to react.

“Would you like me to bring a towel for you?”

“I guess,” Marcus mumbles, catching Sherlock’s wrist when he wanders too near. He tugs him in between his knees and lifts his face for a kiss that Sherlock grants him, at first slightly impatient at the sentiment but then deeply, funnily happy for the slow, seductive warmth of it. 

“I’ll be back with that, then,” he stammers out in between quickened breaths.

Marcus hums and Sherlock makes for the door, grateful for the wash of cool air on his flushed face, the cold stick of wooden floorboards beneath his bare feet, and the reason behind the flustered, bewildered tangle of emotion sitting right at the center of his chest the way his heart sometimes feels when he makes himself aware of it.

He closes the door to the lavatory behind him and hangs the robe on the hook in the door before muttering a swear under his breath, fastening it onto his body, and taking back a towel to Marcus so they can shower together.

\--

Joan sets her laptop up on the desk, positively thrilled that none of the noise from the brownstone filters into the basement, and opens a new word document. The first line of text preceding the flashing vertical bar reads:

_The Gelato and the Empty Brownstone_

She sputters a shameless laugh and shakes her head, deleting that in favor of looking into one of her new clients instead.

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. Written in one sitting. Because I have an itch for sexy Bellock that I apparently had to scratch on my own. Woe is me.


End file.
